What if one of your friends is a pedofile, but he has learned to control his urges

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This is what they used to say about homosexuals not too long ago. Or interracial marriage. You were considered to be messed up in your head if you were attracted to the someone of the same sex. I am sure some homosexuals believed there was something wrong in their head and they wanted to be cured.

It's not like pedophiles chose to be pedophiles. I'm not sure it is "psychological problem", though it is a very unfortunate sexuality to have.

I agree though if you were to have sex with a child you should be punished. I don't know if being hated by society is a good enough indicator that someone has done something wrong though. Like I said earlier, you used to be hated by society for being homosexual (and in some places you still are!).

So you think children are capable of giving actual consent? You think they are capable of understanding what is going on? You think that pedophiles don't have a control complex? Being attracted to someone whose brain and body are severely underdeveloped is messed up. It is not comparable to an adult of the same sex, an adult of a different race, or an adult who's married. Do you feel the same way about bestiality as pedophilia?

All hypothetical situations are not equal just because they are hypothetical situations. Just as my desire to fuck my buddies girlfriend is not as bad as the desire to rape my buddies girlfriend. ya dig?

I mean, best as I can figure out, necrophilia must either be always rape or never rape, but I can't decide which is better.

Also, is it really orange juice if it has pulp, or merely a mashed up orange?

“Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.” – Bill Hicks

Well, since rape is non-consensual sex with another person, I am going to say if you hammer it into a corpse...it's rape. Unless of course you either find a way to talk to the dead or get a signed release from the person prior to death allowing for the post life activities to occur. Either way, it's kind of messed up. Interesting though.

Well of course a dead person is a person. What the hell else would it be, a can of soup? It (they) still has certain legal rights etc. Go ahead and use a corpse as a pinata some time and let me know what happens.

Well, I'll go out on a decaying limb here and say attempting intercourse with the dearly departed is most likely illegal in most civilized places, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it's rape. For one thing, there's not much point putting a corpse-molester on the sex offender registry. What do you do next? Force them to observe a minimum distance from graveyards and morgues?

Though if it's not rape that could lead to crafty would-be-rapists simply murdering their targets first. Sure, murder is probably a more serious offense, but it just doesn't have that same pesky stigma.

“Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.” – Bill Hicks

Ah, this is stirring memories... long, long ago, at some late hour in the evening, I turned on the television and was at once riveted. The action was taking place in some French château, the grand mansion of a rather foppy, wavy-haired blonde. This blue-eyed youth had nothing to do at night - or so it seemed - and had invited a young woman over. The supper he had prepared for the occasion was naturally sumptuous. The care he had put into lacing her drinks and plate was no less exquisite.

And so he wined and dined her... They exchanged smiles ans pleasantries, she blushed like a young virgin at his charm... She was obviously falling head over heels in love with him. Then she stood up, and felt strangely dizzy. Putting a dainty hand on the table, and the other to her forehead, she was his for the taking. As he saw it, he came to her, teeth gleaming white, scooped her up and carried her... to the cellar. The lights dimmed in the staircase, until finally we could only see their faces. Her hair caressed his neck gently. Her gentle breathing was the only sound in this gloomy, mildewed basement.

Then I had to take a piss, or drink some water, or answer a call... I forget what I did, but I was away from the screen at the crucial moment. I'll never forgive myself.

When I returned to my seat, the deed was done. Satisfied, sweating a little, he was leaning over her naked body. She was dead. One could tell from her pallor, and perhaps some rigidity. He was stroking her hair and whispering sweet words in her ears, alternately fixing his gaze on her eyes, on her lips, on the hollow between her breasts...

This is the last image of that (presumably French) film my memory has retained. I was never able to retrieve its title. To this day "serial killer" and "rapist" carries a special touch of blonde romance to me... Such is life.

Ah, this is stirring memories... long, long ago, at some late hour in the evening, I turned on the television and was at once riveted. The action was taking place in some French château, the grand mansion of a rather foppy, wavy-haired blonde. This blue-eyed youth had nothing to do at night - or so it seemed - and had invited a young woman over. The supper he had prepared for the occasion was naturally sumptuous. The care he had put into lacing her drinks and plate was no less exquisite.

And so he wined and dined her... They exchanged smiles ans pleasantries, she blushed like a young virgin at his charm... She was obviously falling head over heels in love with him. Then she stood up, and felt strangely dizzy. Putting a dainty hand on the table, and the other to her forehead, she was his for the taking. As he saw it, he came to her, teeth gleaming white, scooped her up and carried her... to the cellar. The lights dimmed in the staircase, until finally we could only see their faces. Her hair caressed his neck gently. Her gentle breathing was the only sound in this gloomy, mildewed basement.

Then I had to take a piss, or drink some water, or answer a call... I forget what I did, but I was away from the screen at the crucial moment. I'll never forgive myself.

When I returned to my seat, the deed was done. Satisfied, sweating a little, he was leaning over her naked body. She was dead. One could tell from her pallor, and perhaps some rigidity. He was stroking her hair and whispering sweet words in her ears, alternately fixing his gaze on her eyes, on her lips, on the hollow between her breasts...

This is the last image of that (presumably French) film my memory has retained. I was never able to retrieve its title. To this day "serial killer" and "rapist" carries a special touch of blonde romance to me... Such is life.

So you regret that you missed the killing of a naked blonde during coitus and you are desperately seeking its movie title? Priceless! Female jealousy at its morbidst.

Do you think you‘d sell your soul
To just have one thing to turn out right?